Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [12]
“Alberto,” he cried in bitter, lancing Spanish, “how could you? How could you even think of doing such a thing?”
Alberto shrugged, then turned away as if he smelled something bad. “Running an army is expensive, Joan Blair. The Revolution doesn’t survive on air, you know.”
“Christ, look at all the coca out there, how much more money could you possibly need? You’re going to wipe out the parrots if you log up here.”
“We have to save the country, Joan Blair.”
“What, so you can turn it over to these guys?”
“Enough.”
“You think there’ll be anything left to save when they’re done with it?”
“Enough, Joan Blair, I mean it.” Alberto flicked his hand as if shooing a fly. “Get out of here, I’m tired of listening to you. Beat it. Where are those son of a whore guards—”
But Blair had rounded on Hunley. “There’s a parrot up here,” he said in very fast English, “an extremely rare species, these are probably the last birds of their kind in the world. If you guys log up here it’s a pretty sure thing you’re going to wipe them out.”
“Whoa, that’s news to me.” Hunley and his partner exchanged dire looks; Hunley turned to Alberto. “Comandante, I can tell you right now if we get bogged down in any environmental issues then we’re outta here. We don’t have time to mess around with that stuff.”
“Is not a problem,” Alberto said, emitting the gruff sort of English that a bear might speak.
“Well according to your interpreter it is.”
“Not a problem, no, for sure, no bird problems here. Forget the birds.”
“I won’t stand for this,” Blair stated flatly. “I don’t accept it. You people can’t do this.”
Alberto’s lips cramped inward, holding back a smile, though Blair could see it surface in his eyes well enough, the near-lethal mix of pity and contempt. “Okay, Joan Blair, why don’t you stop us,” he mocked, but something skittish and shamed began to leak into his eyes, a gray, mizzly vapor that snuffed out all the light. Alberto tried to stare him down but couldn’t, and at the moment the comandante turned away, Blair knew: the Revolution had reached that classic mature stage where it existed only for its own sake.
“Okay,” Alberto said, reaching for Hunley’s legal pad, “I think we can make the deal.” He circled a number on the pad and handed it back to Hunley. “For that, okay? For this price we make the deal, but one more thing. You have to take this guy with you.”
“No way,” Blair said, “forget it. You’re not getting rid of me.”
“Yes, yes, you are going. We’re tired of feeding you, Joan, you have to go home now.”
“Go to hell Alberto, I’m staying right here.”
Alberto paused, then turned to the Americans. “This man,” he said stiffly, pointing to Blair, “is a spy. As a gesture of goodwill, for the peace process, I am giving him to you, you may please take him home. And if you don’t take him home, today, now, he will be shot. Because that is what we do to spies.”
Kara gasped, but the worldly lumber executives just laughed. “Well, son,” Hunley said, turning to Blair, “I guess that means you’re coming with us.”
Blair wouldn’t look at them, Spasso, Kara, the others, he wouldn’t acknowledge the smiling people in the seats around him. He kept his face turned toward the helicopter’s open door, watching the dust explode as the engines powered up, the crowd waving through the storm of rotor wash. The chopper throbbed, shuddered, shyly wicked off the ground, and as it rose Blair glimpsed Hernan in the crowd, the kid dancing like a boxer as he waved good-bye. In the chaos of loading, he’d slipped through the muddled security cordon and shoved a plastic capsule into Blair’s hand—film, Blair had known without looking at it, a 35mm cartridge. The film was tucked into Blair’s pants pocket now, while he clutched to his lap the backpack with its bundles of data and artifacts: the first, and very likely the last, comprehensive study of the Crimson-capped Parrot. He hung on as the Huey accelerated, trapdooring his stomach into empty space